


claim

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 17:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7853917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Make me yours."</p>
            </blockquote>





	claim

They meet in an old Blackwatch safehouse--as run down as they are, rendered useless and ruined--Jack Morrison and the ghost that follows his footsteps, and before they’ve been there five minutes they’re both on the ground. 

It starts as a brawl but by now their fights could be scripted; it doesn’t matter if it’s rank, sparring, or sex, Jack will always come out on top, and by this point in their lives they should both expect it, accept it.

Jack does. _He_ doesn’t.

“It’s stupid to keep struggling,” Jack growls--he’s already won, straddling the other man’s hips with his full weight and holding his arms down against the floor with an iron grip on his wrists. He struggles anyway; thrashes and makes something in Jack’s hip twinge, pulls a bubbling snarl from him. “Quit, dammit. You know I’ve won.”

Jack earns another raspy snarl--he did never know when to quit. It’s cost them both their lives, by this point.

“Prove it. Make me yours, then,” he hisses, with that voice that sounds like Gabriel but isn’t, never will be again; his hands grab at Jack where Gabriel used to, but the grip is different, punctuated by talons and squeezing just this side of too tight. It’s Gabriel’s same style of roughness, but in a completely different flavor of danger. 

Jack scowls, sitting up and just staring; he can’t be serious. This isn’t how their game is played--

 _“Make me yours,”_ he repeats, and now it sounds more like a plea, like a prayer, like someone lost without a way home; and if Jack has to slam him down and make his hands tight around that lying throat, growl his own promise and throttle the monster out of this man who wears a distorted version of his lover’s face, then he will.

“Make me yours,” Reaper wheezes, his facade cracking like the mask that lies shattered on the floor, and Jack leans down, makes himself avoid the trap of those scarred lips as he whispers, “You already are.”


End file.
